You Got One Shot
by Harmlessly Weird
Summary: A series of totally unrelated random one-shots from some of our lovely girls of the Hunger Games.
1. Hospital

"Full name?" Amaelia looks me up and down.

"Eleanor Ruby Paylor." I study my gun. _Elle_ is a name for friends. For family. For famous people that for some reason want to act like they're on that basis with me.

"Position?"

"Commander of District Eight." I lead the district. I will lead Thirteen if what's-her-name the president there gets killed. I'm not quite sure why but apparently I'm a good leader.

"Reason for coming to this hospital?"

"I want to see my wounded and meet with the Mo – with Katniss Everdeen when she arrives."

Amaelia sighs and says in her normal, unofficial voice, "Sorry, Elle. New procedure for anyone going in."

"It's all right," I say. "But may I?"

"Go for it." Amaelia moves to the side and makes a small mark on her clipboard. She tucks a green ringlet behind one ear. "You're not looking so good, Elle."

"Occupational hazard," I say, annoyed suddenly by her concern about looks. I walk as briskly as I can with a slightly twisted ankle past her. I catch a glimpse of myself in a cracked and dusty mirror as I pass by. I'm not nearly presentable enough to be seen with the Mockingjay. Who cares? Only those big shots back in Thirteen and camera people like Amaelia's funny sister, Cressida. I doubt even the actual Mockingjay cares.

I push a curtain aside.

The smells hit me first – horrible, horrible smells. The tang of blood, the rancid odor of decaying flesh. Some other smells – vomit, dead bodies, waste matter – that are so strong I can taste them. And none are good, but for the faint perfumed flowery undertone that only the people that have been here forever can appreciate. The aroma is a last-ditch attempt to make the place smell _okay_, at least, but it failed.

My eyes don't seem to want to penetrate the haze of sickness in this place, an orangey cloud not helped by the lack of sunlight. The beams of light that do come through pierce holes through it, highlighting beds. A few nurses carry lights that they keep on, slicing the haze. Gradually, my eyes get used to the lighting and I fervently wish they would go back to being unseeing.

The dying and the suffering cry out. It twists my heart to hear the plaintive voice of my second-in-command, Weft Johansson. I make my way around to his bed, see his pale face contorted in anguish. I quickly turn and leave. Johansson and I have been through a lot together. I'm not watching him die of whatever wretched disease or wound he's gotten.

I do try and locate other wounded. My brother, Aaron, where is he? Alone on a bed, a festering side wound threatening to take him any moment. I don't let the tears escape. His wife, Emma? She's a nurse. And she's taking care of him. Relieved that at least Aaron has someone he loves helping him, I look for more people from my district, more of my people. Ellison. Wender. Han. Baylie. Numbes. Some are wounded, some are hobbling around with the help of crutches. Chivaky has her life draining out of a hopeless leg wound. I let the tears go over her. She smiles wanly at me and whispers something before she goes. I don't catch it.

The vast majority of these fighters, though, are in my condition – beat-up, ready to fall over and pass out, but still on their feet. Ready enough to fight. At least we have the ability to fire a gun without collapsing.

I just wander around, eyes scanning the wounded. So many. So _many_ of them are here. I know most of the people on the beds. And the nurses and helpers too.

We're all fighting. Fighting hard. But for _what_? To end the Hunger Games and the Capitol's reign? Is that really such a cause to fight for? We'd have lost far fewer people if we'd just –

Why am I thinking this? I'm fighting for Tania, my little niece, lost to the Games when she was thirteen. I'm fighting for her mother, my sister, Varice. I'm fighting for every last noble man and woman lost to the Capitol, every last fierce, brave man and woman lost to Snow.

That girl…she could be the key to defeating him. I need to talk to her. Soon.

I continue my wandering, talking briefly with a few others in command, and trying to reassure the wounded.

Finally, I hear a commotion couple of beds over, maybe a few aisles. Hushed whispers at first, screams of agony silenced to whimpers to hear what others are saying. Slowly, slowly, the volume rises and I hear the name I knew I was going to hear soon.

Katniss Everdeen is here.


	2. Hell

There is no such thing as good or evil. The good are evil to the evil and the evil are good to the evil. So what is good and what is evil?

I throw back my head and scream, "_I know you can hear me, Everdeen!_"

Silence. Just the rustle of the tumbleweed behind me, and my own panting, frustrated breaths. I'm in hell here, this endless desert arena that I'm sure they've had ready for the Seventy-sixth Games for a while now.

"I know you can hear me," I say, much more quiet now. "And I ask you this – by putting us in here, are you any better than my grandfather? _Any better than your worst enemy_? TELL ME! ARE YOU?"

Nothing. Something caws in the distance.

Wait, not nothing. The rustling tumbleweed behind me keeps rustling. Unnaturally long. I whirl.

The girl standing there is unarmed. Her clothes are tattered. A fading streak of pink in her hair is all that marks her as different from a normal Games tribute.

"Fine, then. Just kill me now. Get this over with. I'm not letting them kill me the way they killed my mom. Take me out. Right now. You have a knife in your hand, _Snow_. Do it."

She may be rambling, losing herself in the dehydration, but Vitellia Torres has a point. A sharp point. A _very_ sharp point –

I launch myself to the side as she lunges, a recently uncovered knife of her own held out in front of me.

"Not a very good diversion. I can kill you if you want," I offer as we both slow down and stop.

"Tempting," Vitellia says. "And I meant that, sort of."

"But you'd prefer to win?" I inquire.

"Yes," she says. Another lunge, another dodge. A wave of heat rolls over us, but we both ignore it like we've learned to in this godforsaken place.

"We were friends," I try.

"'Friends' is just another word," she shoots back. "Like 'murder'."

"Maybe we weren't friends," I mumble. We face each other, knives at our sides. Then a thought strikes me. "Vitellia – wait. Please. We don't have to kill each other."

"Are you crazy, Rose Snow?" she demands. "It's what _they_ want. It's what we have to do to stay alive. To survive. Like the Mockingjay."

"So suddenly the Mockingjay is your idol."

"No. I admire her. There's a difference."

"You want a fight. You want to kill me."

"It's what we made the districts do. We're reaping what we sowed."

"You believe that" – I interject a word that would make my mother wash my mouth out with soap – "that the rebels are feeding us?"

Vitellia smiles. It's not a welcoming smile, but it's not a creepy or scary smile. Just a curve plastered to her face. Doesn't mean anything.

"You wish," she says. "You want to demonize me so that you can kill me without guilt."

Vitellia – the girl with the knack for pointing out uncomfortable truths. Pointing out the barbarism of the Games. Pointing out that my hair can never stay straight. Pointing out that _I'm trying to demonize her_. It's like she's responding to my thoughts.

Her unreal smile changes subtly to a sadder one. "You were okay, Snow," she says. "I'm sorry." Twist –

I sidestep, knife out in front of me. "Vitellia –"

"No more small talk, _Snow_," she says, the fact that she's still using my last name biting into me. "This is done."

She takes a jump at me and misses. Rolls into the sand around us, gets up spitting out the stuff.

And there's another lunge. And this time – I'm not ready. She pulls me down by my shirt. I struggle, my knife glittering just two inches away from her throat, but she knocks my hand to the side and the knife flies five feet away.

Vitellia's on top of me, pinning me to the ground. I vaguely remember seeing _Everdeen _in this position. About two years ago now? The Seventy-fourth Games. With the Two girl on top of _her_. But now, the girl under is not escaping.

Knife flashes down –

One last breath –

One final scream –

"You did this to me, Katniss Everdeen!"

Gone.

**That was weird. R&R!**


	3. Home

**Happy birthday, friend Little One.**

"Katniss?"

I roll over and stuff my face into the comforter. "Leave me alone."

"Not happening," Peeta laughs.

"How'd you get in?" I mumble.

"Leaving the door unlocked is a very bad idea," he says mock-seriously. "Robbers could break in and helpless weaponless you would –"

He dodges the pillow that comes sailing his way. I slide out of bed.

"So," I say playfully, "what prompted you to break into my house at this time on a Saturday morning?" It's times like this that I can forget the lost – times when Peeta is proven to have come back.

"I didn't break –" he starts, then sees my grin. "You really don't know why?"

"No." My answer is immediate.

"You forgot," he says, shaking his head. "It's your _birthday_, Miss Everdeen. And you _forgot_."

"My birthday?" I try to remember. Oh, yes. It's May eighth. My birthday. "So I'm turning eighteen at seven PM."

"And you _forgot_."

"I get that I _forgot_," I mutter. "Quit repeating it." Funny that the messed-up-memory boy remembered and the not-QUITE-as-messed-up-memory girl didn't.

"So," Peeta says. "What do you want for your birthday, Miss Everdeen?"

"You should also quit calling me that," I tell him.

He smiles. "Fine. What do you want for your birthday?"

"To sleep." I dive back onto my bed.

I know he's rolling his eyes. "Katniss, it's nine-thirty."

"I was up late."

"Until what? Six?"

"In the morning, yeah."

"M-hm."

Ah, pointless banter. How I miss it. After Prim died, both Peeta and I went into suicide mode, so there hasn't been time for pointless banter. But now, almost five months after the end of my solitary confinement, the need for it seems to be returning.

"So really," Peeta says, "what do you want for your birthday?"

I prop myself up facing him. "Why?" I ask, dragging out the _y_ playfully.

"Why _what_?"

"Why are you asking what I want for my birthday?"

He sighs.

I sit up straighter and start ticking things off on my fingers. "Cheese buns. Shooting practice. More cheese buns. Hunting. A new hair tie. Maybe a cake? Something sweet, anyway. For Haymitch to stop drinking."

"That's a lot of things," he says. "Although the only impossible one is that last one."

I laugh – another thing I haven't done in forever – and get out of the bed again. "And, I'm going to help you bake something."

He looks alarmed. "Second impossible birthday wish."

"I don't _care_ if I burn it," I say.

"You could do a lot worse than burn it."

"Was that an insult?" One can never tell with this boy.

"Maybe."

Another laugh and I say, "One last thing. I'm going to give you archery lessons."

Now Peeta looks flat-out panicked. "It's fine, Katniss," he says, calm as ever. "I'm okay."

"No, you suck," I say matter-of-factly. Something seems to have taken over my vocal cords, my actions, even my thoughts – something so much lighter and happier than anything I've felt for an incredibly long time. I'm not even sure I've ever used the word _suck_ in this context before.

"Katniss?" Peeta takes a step back.

I shake my head. _Light _and _happy_ are not Katniss Everdeen-esque words. But maybe they're birthday girl words.

"First we take care of impossible thing number two," I say, catching Peeta's elbow and dragging him out of the room. "I'm going to help you make cheese buns!"


	4. Heaven

**I just reread _Incarceron_. Hence the reference.**

What's my name? Primrose. Yes. Primrose. Did I go by anything else, down in that world? Did I? I don't know…she says her name's Rue, that she'll help me. _Rue_…the name strikes a bell. She sits down next to me for days at a time and whispers soothingly, interjecting maddeningly familiar words…_Katniss_, _Hunger Games_, _Everdeen_, _Panem_. Then, finally, one word – _Prim_.

Something clicks. _Yes. Prim. That's what I went by. Prim. And who called me Prim?_ I try to summon up a name, a face, anything, but I come up blank.

"What?"

"I _said_," Rue repeats, "are you coming to the Watching?"

"The Watching?"

She gives me a weird look. "Right. You've only been dead for a week. I keep forgetting."

"Well, how long've _you_ been dead?"

She looks at me sadly. "I'm sorry. You'll remember eventually, I hope."

"Remember _what_?"

She bites her lip. "Do the words _Hunger Games_ mean anything to you?"

I study the ground. "It rings a bell."

"Before your first year is over, you'll remember what they were."

"Why can't I remember anything?" A note of panic leaks into my voice. "Nothing. Just my name. And how to speak…what's this language again?"

"No one knows," Rue says. "Everyone in Pa – in the living world speaks it. As for not remembering anything, that's just temporary. Every dead person experiences that. Before a year's over, you'll remember everything about who you are. The ones who die young – like us – we remember faster."

Something sparks deep down in my head. I chase it internally, but come up empty and frustrated.

"And the Watching. You can watch how your loved ones are doing, down in the living world," she finally says after some time. "It'll help you remember."

"I'm coming," I say as soon as she's finished the last sentence.

"Good," she says. "Let's go. This happens once a year, Prim. We'd better hurry."

She practically drags me out of my cubbyhole of a room. We emerge into a corridor, all white and gold with rows of shiny doors on either side. I'm so awed that I don't catch Rue's first words.

"…so this is the Younglings' Hall," she finishes, gesturing around us. Names like _Madge Undersee_ and _Bonnie Shahas_ pop out at me, like they should be recognizable.

"Where's your room?"

Rue looks a little sad. "Right here." She points at the door wedged between _Marvel Zew_ and _Calypsa Brine_. "Those of us that died in the Se – together are grouped here."

"Died in the Se?"

She bites her lip. "Seventy-fourth Hunger Games."

This sends my head into a frenzy as it reaches for memories that aren't there. These _Seventy-fourth Hunger Games _must be incredibly important to me. "What were the Hunger Games?" I finally manage.

Rue sweeps her gaze over the polished marble floor. "They were where I died. An evil place called the Capitol held a fight to the death for twenty-four kids every year. The Hunger Games."

"They sound _terrible_," I say.

"You should know," Rue whispers.

"You seem to know me pretty well," I accuse her. "Why can't you just explain who I am?"

A sad mien flits across her face. "If I tell you, when your memories come back you won't be able to separate what I told you and what you really remember."

"So they will come back."

"Oh, yes," she assures me. "I was just like you. Asana and Claris helped me."

"Asana and Claris?"

"You'll meet them at the Watching," Rue says. "So hurry up."

I walk after her down the Younglings' Hall, through a door and into a blank whiteness. Really, that's the best way to explain it. However, also in this _blank whiteness_ are at least a hundred other people. All just stare out expectantly. Quietly. Waiting for something to happen.

Except one.

"Prim?" It's hushed, whispered. "Prim!"

The voice sends pain through my head in that mad scramble for nonexistent memories.

He puts one hand under my chin and turns my head up. His face is heartbreakingly familiar. Some haze of sadness and difficulty is associated with the strong expression, the smile lines around the gray eyes.

"Prim," he says softly. "Why are you here? I'm only supposed to see you in the Watching."

"Who are you?" I whisper, matching his tone.

He sounds a little startled, eyes widening. "Of course. You died, didn't you, Prim?"

"Galan," Rue says. So she _knows_ him.

"Rue. You've been taking care of her? I'd wondered where you vanished to."

"Sorry I couldn't tell you," Rue says, as if my dying is just a passing inconvenience. Obviously, it doesn't strike Galan so. He's still examining me with a look of despair on his face.

"How's Katniss?" he says, then winces when I do. "Prim?"

"I don't know who that is," I say, tears threatening.

"So it was recent," he says. "And you don't know who I am? You'd remember Katniss before you remembered me."

I blink at him. _So. Familiar_. But I can't place anything.

"Prim…" he begins, then stops whatever he's about to say. Probably for the same reason Rue was withholding information.

"You'll remember, Prim," he finally says, and turns to the whiteness as if he can't bear to look at me.


End file.
